I have a habit of never stirring my oat milk.
I smoke Luckies out the bathroom window.
Why else would there be a wooden chair in the corner?
Maybe the mailbox is the only place for this letter to exist.
Sometimes my life is just being mad
at someone’s younger sister and that’s about it.
The toddler doesn’t have a younger sister.
The toddler stabbed the cat with lefty scissors.
The toddler is right-handed. ​​I jump in my sleep.
I dream of eating Bisquick at a wide-tie catered party.
I wore heart-shaped sandals to class, and I had to change.
Heart-shaped sandals clash with brown corduroys.
I am an amateur tennis player crossing into Canada.
Someone tells me I can’t be precocious as an adult, but
my preferred method of exercise is jumping jacks.
Can I feed the toddler Bisquick?
Is he going through a fish stick phase?
I take the toddler to the squid and whale diorama.
I pass by Noah Baumbach’s house.
I’ve never seen a sperm whale.
I wonder what whale milk tastes like.
The Bisquick at the party is mixed with water.
They didn’t have any milk. I asked for oat milk.
I like the texture of lumps of pancake batter down my throat.
The toddler asks for waffles on the way to the museum.
I want to do cartwheels to Bowie’s ‘Modern Love’ for all
of Brooklyn to see in scrunched-up ladies’ tennis socks.
The giant squid is prey to the sperm whale.
I am both predator and prey.
Sperm whales still bear scars.
Salinger touched teenage girls.
Can I feed the toddler Bisquick?
We microwave fish sticks when we return.
Sperm whales use suction instead of teeth.
More sucking, less teeth.
We vacuum the cat hair off the blue rug.
The toddler arranges my funeral.
The toddler asks to be the flower boy.
I insist on ceremony.
His dad complains he’s broke.
I have a habit of never reading
the New York Times Book Review.
I leave the trash can on fire.